


But Then Better

by sinenomine



Series: Worse.Better.Best [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguments, Genital Mutilation of OCs, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Safer Sex, Sexually Transmitted Diseases, Suicidal Thoughts, relationship difficulties, self-injury, the comfort part of hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:23:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinenomine/pseuds/sinenomine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s attempts to deal with the aftermath of the rape are not always pleasant or productive. Even so, with John by his side, he manages to cope, and finds that it does get better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Then Better

They’ve given him painkillers, but not the _good_ kind.

He doesn’t see John, or anyone he knows, until after they’ve taken the samples, cleaned him up, and put him through the x-ray.

He supposes that it’s for the best. Being seen like that, face-to-face, would be even worse that being seen on video. Having been seen on video is more than he can bear.

He refuses to give a statement. He tells them he’s deleted everything after being dragged into the alley. Eventually they give up. 

He doesn’t know what it is that he feels when John bursts into the room, stinking of panicked sweat with worry still etched on his features. His lungs relax, but his stomach clenches. Anger floods him when he meets John’s eyes.

“I,” John hesitates, and Sherlock wants him to say something stupid so that he can snap at him and justify this anger. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

Sherlock exhales through his nose.

John reaches for his hand, slowly, and when they’ve almost touched Sherlock whips his own away.

“Sorry.” John recoils, looking absolutely gutted.

The guilt that immediately floods him only buoys his anger.

“I take it telling you the name of the establishment I was being held behind was a bit too cryptic for you.”

John winces. “We only heard the first two numbers and a few syllables. We thought it was an address.”

“That is what I would expect of London’s finest.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t find you sooner.” John looks away from him.

“Obviously.”

“Yes.” He tilts his head down and smiles softly. “I suppose so.”

He looks at Sherlock again. “Do you know when you’ll be able to come home.”

“Soon, I expect, once they’ve determined there’s no internal bleeding.”

“Oh, well, good. That’s good.”

“Yes,” Sherlock responds. “I suppose so.”

There’s so much more to say, and so few words that feel appropriate.

John takes the chair by Sherlock’s bedside and sits with a clear determination to stay until he’s released.

Sherlock wants to be alone; he doesn’t want John to go.

“I expect it will be difficult to get home,” he says, and maybe the anger is a little bit humiliation, “unless someone brings me a new set of clothes.”

John sits very still as Sherlock adds, “considering recent events, I’m finding the open-backed hospital gowns rather less than comfortable.” 

“Ah, of course, Yes. I think your brother’s coming with some. He’ll be here soon. He’s just,” John’s momentary hesitation wouldn’t have been noticed by anyone less observant than Sherlock, “wrapping things up.”

“I’m sure I’ll be asleep when he arrives.”

“He was going mad with worry,” John admonishes.

“He’s always been mad with worry. It’s what he does.”

“He’s having the evidence destroyed you know, so no one will see it.”

Of course Mycroft would take prosecution into his own hands without asking Sherlock whether he intended to go through official channels. Still, if those videos were destroyed, he could maybe bear to spend a couple of conscious minutes in his brother’s presence.

“And who has seen them?” The question compresses his gut. A part of him actually wants to avoid the information, but of course this is important, and knowledge is always better than ignorance.

“I have.” John stares at his hands. “Your brother, some,” his eyes dart to Sherlock’s face and hold his gaze, “most of the Yard. Not all of them.” He adds when Sherlock’s only visible reaction is a slight tightening of the jaw, “Lestrade has.”

He considers asking who figured out where he was. That it wasn’t John is written in his bearing, by the persistence of guilt that Sherlock can only see as due to an inability to help. He’ll deduce it when he has the chance, he decides. 

The idea of thanking his rescuer brings on a vague sense of discomfort, but the idea of most of the police seeing him like that – which he’d expected to happen, had thought he was prepared for – makes his heart pound and his breath quicken.

It’s embarrassing, of course, but more than that, the only reason some of these people will work with him is that he has cultivated an air of superhuman infallibility. No one who’s seen what happened to him will view him as anything close to infallible now. They’ll still work with him, but not as efficiently. They’ll always remember him on his knees, led there by his own deductions.

“It wasn’t seen by anyone who wasn’t working to find you.”

At Sherlock’s silence he continues. “I don’t regret showing anyone. I couldn’t have found you on my own.”

“Besides,” he adds after a second, “I didn’t have a choice, I was in Lestrade’s office when the first one arrived.”

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, then smiles tightly. “Ah, because he didn’t want to leave you at the scene.”

“No,” John says plainly, “he didn’t. You should be thankful for that. It would have taken even longer to find you if I hadn’t been surrounded by people who jumped to help.”

“How incredibly lucky I am.”

“You are,” John bursts, “they could have killed you! We might not have found you! Someone else might have; you have actual enemies, you are aware of that? They could have taken you and I’d never see you again until the day someone found your mutilated body in a landfill!” He gives something between a sigh and a gasp. “You keep running off into danger, alone, when you know I’m more than happy to run into it with you, and you’re still alive. You’re going to get out of this bed, and you’re going to come home, and you’re going to be able to run right into danger again. You are lucky.”

The dam on his anger bursts, and he opens his mouth, so many biting, scathing responses on his tongue that they roll out as nothing but a snarl. His body betrays him, again, and John gets to sit there, thinking he’s right. He doesn’t even recoil at Sherlock’s glare.

Sherlock tries to turn and roll away from John, but when he does all he succeeds in doing is twisting and groaning at the pain in his back.

“Are you alright?” John asks idiotically, panicked. He reaches for Sherlock, who twitches away from his hands and groans again.

“I’ll get a nurse.” He really should know better.

“Don’t. Just get away. Get away from me. I hate you.”

John moves back, but stays in the chair.

Sherlock wants to hurt him as much as he hurts.

“You’re useless. I told you where I was and you couldn’t even find me. You think I’m lucky?” He sneers. “You know they didn’t actually rape the frigidity out of me.”

John looks as though he’s been slapped.

“I-” John stumbles over his words. “No one ever thought,” and there’s a spark of anger rising in him too. “How could you even-”

“Stop talking,” Sherlock cuts him off, his guilt finally overpowering his anger. No, he doesn’t want John to hurt as much as him. He never wants that.

“It doesn’t matter,” and he won’t apologise. His cruelty was justified. 

Sherlock moves back to a more comfortable position. John makes no signs of having heard the rustle of the ice-packs.

“If you’d been with me,” he says, “it would have been worse. They would have done it to you too. There were too many of them.”

Now he’s stating the obvious, pathetically.

“It doesn’t matter.” He’s repeating himself; he’d like to blame it on the pain-killers. “It happened. We’re here now,” and it is ‘we’ not just ‘I’ and he is grateful for that.

John lets the matter drop.

He’s exhausted, but Sherlock knows that the cold seeping up his body is the least of the things that will prevent him from sleeping. He hates to think about what he might dream.

Even so, lying in silence with John sitting beside him, he manages off drift off to the edge of sleep.

He doesn’t forget his vulnerability, and when he hears footsteps in the hall, approaching his room, he’s fully conscious and alert half a second before he works out why.

Mycroft enters with an umbrella in one hand and a bag in the other. The bag contains clothes, newly purchased by some assistant. Mycroft sets it by John’s chair before moving to stand at the end of Sherlock’s bed.

They stare at one another.

Eventually, John coughs. Neither of them respond.

“All considered, you look well.”

“You don’t,” and does everyone have to imply that it could have been worse? He’s holding up; that doesn’t mean he’s alright. “What’s gone wrong?”

“I’m not sure it would be wise to discuss this with you in your present state.”

Sherlock stares at him with the exact look he’s used before jumping out of trees, before causing small explosions, before sticking a needle in his arm. Mycroft can read the message in the look, “ _If you try to protect me, I’ll only hurt myself more_ ,” even more clearly than if the words had been said.

“It would appear that there have been some disappearances. The men we were looking for have vanished with a skill not belied by their prior conduct.”

That is interesting. Those men weren’t competent enough to evade the police’s capture for long, let alone Mycroft’s. They had been working alone, Sherlock was certain. The operation had been too shoddy to have a higher hand involved, and Moriarty would have been embarrassed to interact with criminals so stupid. If they hadn’t been hidden by Moriarty, and they hadn’t been found by Mycroft, then whatever had happened had to have been fascinating.

“I had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to have to have you chained to the bed and put under constant guard, but I will not have you running off after them. Not now.”

“I’ve had enough of being tied down for one night, I think,” Sherlock bites out. “And I wouldn’t worry about any running off. I wouldn’t get very far.”

“I’ve known you for far too long to believe that.” Mycroft runs his thumb along the handle of his umbrella.

“I couldn’t go after them like this.” Sherlock’s eyes flit down over his own bruised body. “It would kill me.”

“You’ve been trying to kill yourself for years.” Mycroft lowers his eyes. “That’s how you ended up here,” he says, tone low, “again.”

He looks up with a half-smile that is anything but happy. “Right after I’d fallen under the impression that you’d found something worth living for.”

Is everyone is determined to use John against him?

“Yes, yes, I did something foolish. I ran off alone, and I did dangerous things, and I learned my lesson. Aren’t you pleased?” The bitterness is a fist in his already raw throat. “What will mother say when you run off to tell her this time?”

At that, Mycroft winces. “I won’t be telling her anything. You can speak to her, or not, as you wish. I can’t see what good it would do her to know.”

“Oh how we’ve both learned and grown.”

“Don’t be this way. It’s not the same.”

Sherlock stares at him, unconvinced and unimpressed.

“I never tattled,” Mycroft says the word with a degree of mockery describing a history of use, “for something that wasn’t your own willful fault.”

“Oh, but I did go running off into danger alone, didn’t I?” and John winces at that. “Willfully, and after all those times you’d told me to be more careful-”

“Stop!” Mycroft’s fingers are white around the head of his umbrella. “Stop this. I was just as helpless to stop it as you were, so don’t be an idiot about it.”

Mycroft turns to John. “I realise that this is a herculean task, but please try to keep him from doing anything stupid.” His eyes are shining, but his cheeks are perfectly dry. “And if either of you need anything,” he turns to the door, “I will have it supplied.”

Sherlock huffs in the wake of his brother’s exit. He tilts his head in John’s direction and says, “You can tell him we need Beluga caviar.”

John doesn’t quite laugh.

* * *

He has never spent so much time considering the workings of his bowels. He is living in a constant state of dread. Will his next trip to the toilet have him ripping himself open further, or just shitting in fear?

He’d managed to avoid deep rectal perforation, and because he was, as everyone insisted on telling him, so very, very lucky, he’d also managed not to tear his sphincter considerably. Of course, should any of his many rectal fissures take the opportunity to split further, he could have permanent, incontinence-causing damage.

His life is a cycle of relaxant ointments, biological functions so painful and terrifying they leave his mind essentially blank, salt baths, antibiotics, eating, sleeping, and more antibiotics.

He can’t lie on his back for long – his shoulders are bruised to the bone and his spine still aches – and he has to be careful when lying on his front – his knees and forearms are still raw, and too much pressure on his chest leaves him gasping for panicked breath reflexively.

His sides still bear a rainbow of bruises in the shapes of hands and fingers and fists. He sees them in the mirror every time he slips in or out of the bath, and his urge to look away persuades him to examine them closely instead. 

When they fade, he’ll still have them memorised. When he understands why he’s memorised them, he’ll delete them.

John is out buying supplies. Supplies, at this particular point in his life, include incontinence pads, because there’s only so much blood one can get on one’s remaining clothes before one puts practicality before vanity. Sherlock knows that John is a doctor, and he knows that he’s seen worse things, but he thinks that when a relationship has reached the point where one partner is willing to buy... such products for the other, and still wants to be near them, that’s love.

It’s love, Sherlock is sure, pretty sure, fairly sure. But.

John’s eyes still follow Sherlock as he moves, he still stares at Sherlock’s lips. 

But he never moves in to kiss them.

And it’s only been a couple of days. And he’s been pushing John away as, if not more, often as he’s been wanting him close. And if John had tried to initiate anything so soon, he probably would have reacted **badly**.

But still, he isn’t certain where he stands. He’s too close to see clearly; emotion is blurring his deductions. What could be restrained consideration could be persistent loyalty. What could be loyalty could be faded desire. What could be faded desire could be repressed visceral disgust. He doesn’t know, and he needs to.

* * *

John trudges up the stairs. The bags are heavy in his hands, and the coat is heavy on his shoulders, and the frown is heavy on his face, and everything is heavy. 

He’s glad to be home. He doesn’t want to leave Sherlock alone for too long. He likes being with him, and he likes the comfort that looking over and seeing him safe and whole affords him.

It’s difficult though. He has to anticipate Sherlock’s moods or be left reeling in the wake of the response to whatever unidentifiable mistake he’s made. He tries to keep up, to stay composed, but Sherlock is even touchier than usual and exceptionally good at lashing out. Sometimes he wants to lash back, but this is not the time.

He breathes deep, then lets himself in. 

Sherlock is on him in a second, pulling his coat off, closing the door behind him and pushing him back against it.

He drops the bags when he feels Sherlock’s lips, and the stubble he can’t shave without reopening the scabs covering his neck, pressing against his jaw, on his cheek, right below his ear, then against his own lips. It feels amazing.

John grinds against him, breath shallow, blood rushing. Sherlock’s fingers flutter on his zip, drawing it down, and then there’s only one layer of fabric between those glorious hands and him, and Sherlock is pulling that down and –

“No,” he says, turning his head away because he knows that if he isn’t clear it’ll be lost as another moan. If he doesn’t stop it now it won’t stop, and there will be regret. 

“Stop.” There’s no mistaking his demand. Sherlock stills.

They breathe, for a second, and when he doesn’t explain further Sherlock pulls back.

“I can’t,” John tries, “not after what just,” he places the emphasis to say ‘It’s too soon; I won’t do this to you. You’re not ready. I’m not ready after having seen you hurt like that. You’re still covered in bruises and can barely move, so I can’t just now’ “happened.”

Sherlock clearly does not hear it like that.

“I see,” he says with a smile that sends a chill up John’s spine. “Of course.” The smile widens. “It was stupid of me to suspect you’d still want someone so used!” The last word is shouted. Sherlock turns, and before John can grab at him or speak, he’s fled. John hears the slam of his bedroom door.

After a moment of stunned silence, he throws himself into action. He picks up a shopping bag.

“There is a difference,” he yells just as loud at Sherlock’s door, “between not wanting you,” he throws a can of soup at the door; it dents, “and not wanting you to use my body,” the loaf of bread hits the door with a pathetic thump, “as a tool in your self-therapy!” He throws the rest of the bag all at once. It crackles as it bounces off.

Mrs. Hudson has heard that, surely. 

He leaves the shopping where it is. He rather hopes Sherlock steps on the can when he decides to come out.

He takes the other bag, checks that the eggs aren’t broken, and puts everything away.

He fastens his trousers, makes himself a cup of tea, and drinks it without enjoying a drop.

“Are you doing anything stupid in there?” he demands of the door. He gets no answer.

“If you don’t say something I’m calling your brother,” still no response, “and maybe 999.”

He hears a gurgling noise, and shit, Sherlock has done something stupid, of course. Whatever it is, an ambulance won’t arrive in time.

He throws himself bodily against the door; he can bash it down if he has to. He reaches to the handle; with enough force he should be able to break the lock and twist the latch right out of the – 

The knob twists naturally in his grip. The door pushes in without resistance.

“Was Mycroft able to talk you through opening an unlocked door?” asks Sherlock from where he lies on his bed, head tilted toward him. “Or did emergency services have to help?”

“It wasn’t locked,” he says, thinking of the damage the soup can could have done if the latch hadn’t held.

“Mmm, If you keep deducing at this rate, they might let you replace me at the Yard.”

“Shove off. You’re a right arse, you know that?”

“Yes,” he turns his head and speaks the rest of the sentence into a pillow, “but not half as much of one as you.”

“Oh, come off it.” He steps into the room. “Have you done anything stupid?”

“Yes”

“What?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Should I call emergency services, you child?”

“Don’t. I’m fine.”

“You understand why that happened, yeah?”

Sherlock turns his head and looks at John again. After a long moment he says, “I haven’t been tested for viral infections yet, let alone immunodeficiency. I understand your position.”

John sighs. “You’re not used.”

“Oh, but I am.”

And of course, Sherlock is determined to make everything as difficult as possible.

Grabbing and shaking his flatmate would not help matters. Instead, John tells him to move over so that he can take a seat on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock glances at him suspiciously, but performs a strange yet effective crab-like motion that leaves John with enough room to sit comfortably. 

“See,” John says at Sherlock’s wince. “That’s what I mean. You can barely move. I’m not having sex with you until you can enjoy it.”

“But you do still want to have sex with me.”

“Obviously. I thought I’d made that clear.”

“Not as much though.”

John stares at him. “The wincing at every movement is a bit of a turn-off.” He shifts so that their hips are touching lightly. “Is that what this is about? I don’t want to have sex with you right now because it wouldn’t be good for either of us. At some point, when things are better, I want to have as much sex as physically possible.”

“You wanted it more,” Sherlock says with a peculiar lilt, “when I was a virgin.”

John freezes. As a doctor, he has always hated seeing people in these situations, people crying not because of the physical pain, but because they feel they’ve lost something intangible but essential. People crying because they think they’re worth less now, or they’ve been unfaithful to someone. There aren’t tears in Sherlock’s eyes, but it’s all one and the same.

He’s never felt good at this. It’s not a physical pain he can alleviate, but one dealt with much better by the psychologists these people see after the physical exams. He hates that he’s glad that he’s said this before, but it means that he’s thought about it, and explained it, and can say it with conviction.

“People stop being virgins,” he says, “when they’ve had sex. Rape is not sex.”

“That’s a nice line,” Sherlock says, “but not applicable. Once you’ve had three pricks inside you at once, you have to stop calling yourself a virgin. It’s disingenuous.”

John opens his mouth to argue, then loses his train of thought. He hadn’t seen that in the videos. He’d thought he’d seen the worst of it, but obviously not. Obviously Sherlock had been lying when he’d said he’d deleted the memories, which he’d known, really, but had kept himself from thinking too much about. 

Sherlock is staring at him now, satisfaction in his smile and disappointment in his eyes at having won the argument.

John decides not to argue; Sherlock will only talk around him, horribly.

“I never cared about your virginity,” he tries instead.

“Stop lying to me.” Sherlock frowns. “You found it arousing.”

John inhales deeply through a grimace. “Yes, fine. I liked the idea of being the first person you’d let touch you.”

“But you don’t like it quite as much as both being the first person I’d let,” Sherlock fills his tone with as much derision for the concept as he is capable of, “touch me, and being the first person to,” his hesitation lasts barely a fraction of a second, “fuck me.”

John stands. “All right. Did you think I was just going to sleep with you once then lose all interest?”

“Not the same situation.”

“No, it’s not. Tell me anyway. Would it matter less after the first time?”

Sherlock turns his head away completely.

“Fine! That’s fine,” John continues. “I see why you were so reluctant to do more than kiss me. It must have been difficult preparing yourself to sleep with someone so far less special!” He tries for a mocking tone, but his anger comes through stronger.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Sherlock turns back to him, snarling.

“I’m just trying to keep up!”

Sherlock flings the pillow at him. It hits John across the midsection with a soft whump before falling to the ground.

They stare at it.

“Give it back,” Sherlock says eventually.

“So you can throw it at me again?”

“My neck hurts.”

John bends to retrieve the pillow, and when he looks up Sherlock is staring at him with a frown but no malice.

“I hate that you can make me feel stupid,” Sherlock says, then clenches his jaw and looks down at the bed.

“I’ll try to use my powers for good.”

Sherlock shifts over some more. John takes the painful movement as an invitation to sit down again after returning the pillow. Sherlock’s arm snakes around him, and pulls John down by his side.

“You’re worth more than me,” Sherlock says, eyes closed and arm draped over John’s chest, “because you always have been. I only have so much to offer.”

It would be easier if those words could make John angry. Instead, they only make him sad. Besides, he’s fairly sure Sherlock didn’t mean to say them aloud. 

“That’s one of those thoughts,” he says, puff of breath gentle against Sherlock’s face, “that should make you feel extraordinarily stupid.”

If Sherlock gives any response, John doesn’t notice it.

They lie together.

* * *

Sherlock runs his fingers over the ridged cap of the pill bottle. Finally empty.

He’s reclining on the couch, back against the cushions. It still hurts, but he can do it.

In a week, he’ll go back for more tests. It’s been a week. It’s been a week since he’s had a case. It’s been a week since he’s spoken to Lestrade. It’s been a week since he’s had anything but the thought of what happened to him and what happened to his attackers afterward to occupy him.

He wants a distraction. He wants a case, and if he can’t have that, he wants the warmth and jovial apathy of morphine. He could get some, easily. He could get enough, and more. If he did, he doesn’t think anyone would be all that surprised. No one would wonder why, at least. He has people to blame themselves, but as everyone tells him, people recover.

He could go out, he could come home – he would come home, he doesn’t want John to worry that something worse has happened – he could walk into his room and feel very good for a while and never walk out. John would find him, and he’d be horrified, but he’d be better off. Everyone would be. The rent would get paid on time.

He would, but going out means getting up, and he can’t be bothered right now. He’d have to excuse his excursion, and his body’s too heavy on the couch for him to do much more than twitch his leg. He doesn’t have enough in the flat to do anything permanent, and he doesn’t have morphine in any case.

It’s funny really. All that effort to make sure he always used fresh needles, no matter how much he didn’t care, because he wasn’t going to be stupid about it, in accordance with some subjective standard of stupidity. Now here he is, waiting to take the same tests for worse reasons.

He’d sold his mind for drugs – helped dealers avoid police informants, tipped them off to trouble to get in their good graces, to make sure they knew not to cheat him – but he’d never sold his body. He may have had issues, he may have had an addiction, but he’d never had a drug problem. He’d never crossed the line between acceptable use and doing things he didn’t want to do for more. It seems stupid now. It would have been better to have used his body then than to have had it used as it was.

It doesn’t matter. The top of the pill bottle is rough under his thumb, and the cushions are firm against his back, and he doesn’t keep enough drugs on hand to hurt himself easily because when he gets like this, and his thinking slows, he’ll do stupid things if he can. No one can stop him, he’s still cleverer than most of them. It doesn’t matter. 

John brings him tea, and watches him as though he knows what Sherlock is thinking, which he can’t. Sherlock would tell him to stop staring, or ask him to pass the paper, but he can’t bring himself to force the words out.

The tea goes cold.

* * *

“Pediculus,” says Sherlock, sitting at the table and stealing John’s other piece of toast.

It takes John a moment.

“Oh.” He’s glad that Sherlock has started speaking again, but this isn’t what he’d expected to hear.

Sherlock shows no signs of discomfort in his posture, but he has yet to make eye contact.

“You live with me, and you’re a doctor. I don’t have experience in this, so if there are alternate routes of contagion –”

“No,” John cuts him off. Sherlock has been reusing towels after his frequent baths, but there’s been no contact between those and anything John would use. “And I’ll get something to help. It won’t need a prescription.”

“Then no one else needs to know.”

“Of course not. We’ll need to wash all the towels regularly, which will be a bit of work but it’s not as though we have to do it by hand, and any clothes you’ve worn or sheets you’ve used, but that’s all really.”

Sherlock eats the toast. His bed sheets end up in the bin, but they’d had blood on them anyway.

* * *

Sherlock checks the internet, which insipid people have used to tell him about boring cases. He can’t live like this. The boredom will kill him, and it would be such a waste after all the restraint he’s used to avoid killing himself.

He hasn’t heard from Lestrade since the last time he’d been to a crime scene. He’s thought about why that may be – he’s thought and thought and thought and thought and thought, because there’s little else to do – but he doesn’t have enough information to be certain about anything. He’ll break the silence if it can get him something to work on. He might not be able to chase anyone down yet, but there’s no need to rest his brain as much as his body. Tedium only slows him and leaves him self-loathing.

Sherlock takes his mobile – new, in a different model, a different brand, nothing like the last – and sends the Detective Inspector a message.

* * *

Lestrade’s breath catches when he reads the text. He puts his phone down, thinks of what to say, picks it up, decides he’s an idiot, and puts it down again.

He’s not sure what he’s doing. He’d meant to go along with John, to see Sherlock in hospital, but he’d been needed to help finish tying up loose ends. Strange people had appeared, and everything they’d gathered when searching for Sherlock had been taken. Records of it had been wiped. Objections had been silenced.

He’d been called in by his superiors and there’d been a very clear talk about calling in unauthorized aid. They’d said a lot of things, but what had really struck him had been their opinions on his culpability in the matter. Sending an untrained, unprotected man to track down murderers and thieves and criminal gangs was in no way in accordance with police procedure. The consequences of such actions were his, and, as Scotland Yard had in no way condoned his actions, his alone, to bear.

They were right. He’d been doing it for the best reasons – no one could catch criminals and save lives as efficiently as Sherlock – but he’d been sending Sherlock off into danger, repeatedly, and it had only been a matter of time until something happened.

It couldn’t happen again, and not only because of the likelihood that he only still had his job because the incident he would have lost it for was now unmentionable.

He had meant to go see Sherlock, and then he hadn’t. He’d already seen so, so much of Sherlock, and Sherlock wouldn’t want to be seen in the aftermath of that, especially not by someone who’d seen it happen. Sherlock wouldn’t want to be seen by the person who’d sent him into that. Sherlock wouldn’t want to see him.

So he’s surprised to get the message, and he doesn’t know how to respond. It’s been far too long to be anything but intensely awkward.

“Why are you talking to me?” lacks a certain je ne sais quoi and is open to misinterpretation.

“I am never sending you on another case, ever,” is just as bad. 

As soon as he can, while maintaining any semblance of professional responsibility, he calls out and heads to 221B.

He doesn’t bring flowers because, just because. He doesn’t bring food because, while it would be practical, he wants to minimize the chances of having things thrown at him. He decides to bring nicotine patches, because nothing says “sorry for sending you off to be gang-raped” quite like helping someone feed an addiction.

He’s let in by the landlady, then let further in by John.

He’s certain there’s reproach in his tone when John speaks. “It’s been a while. I suppose you’ve been busy?”

“Yes. Terribly. With everything.”

John blinks at him and his box of patches.

“He sent me a message, and I thought I’d better reply in person.” Before he can stop himself he adds, “How is he?”

“Come see for yourself then.” John leads Lestrade into the flat and gestures at the figure on the couch. “He was moving around a bit for a while earlier, but he’s stopped speaking again. Maybe you can get something out of him.”

Sherlock watches him, eyes blank as he places the patches – more accurately described as the offering – on the coffee table.

The silence stretches on.

“I know this can’t matter to you, but I’m sorry for causing this,” and, damn it, here he goes, “I should never have sent you off after a crime-ring alone. I should never have put you in that position. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock stares at him for a second, then speaks, every word sounding as though it were dragged out of him with great effort.

“It astounds me that a man displaying your intellectual capacity can manage to button his own shirt in the morning.”

And alright, that’s fair. There were worse possible responses.

Sherlock stares at him for several seconds, then continues. “You are in no way responsible for what happened to me.”

Lestrade opens his mouth, but Sherlock starts picking up speed. “I’ll thank you to remember that you’ve never ‘sent me off’ anywhere. You bring me cases, I take what I like, and I solve them as I choose. Do not delude yourself into thinking you’re capable of putting me in any position against my will. You had no say in my actions or where they led me. I’m not your responsibility, unless you’ve decided to let me die of boredom.”

Lestrade has become rather attached to the guilt that clenches in his chest.

“I was doing more dangerous things before I started associating with you, as I’m sure you’ll remember,” Sherlock continues in response to his silence.

That’s true, and he supposes he can trade one source of guilt for another.

“My superiors don’t see things that way.”

“That’s because they’re self-important idiots. Now if you’d stop thinking of yourself as the catalyst for danger in my life and start being reasonable, give me something to work on.”

“I can’t. They don’t want me calling you in any more. It looks bad at the best of times, and after this...”

Sherlock’s face is frozen. “I’m sure you’ll all look so much better floundering on cases you’re too stupid to solve while serial killers continue unimpeded.

Lestrade keeps himself from snapping that they’re not hopeless. Because he’s an adult and won’t let Sherlock drag him down to his level, and because, really, they have been.

Instead he heaves a harsh sigh and says, “They’re watching me. I’m sure they’re looking for any excuse. But I will try,” he cuts off Sherlock’s rising protest, “to find something. Just promise me that you won’t do anything with what I bring you, if I even can bring you anything, that will put you in danger. I can only possibly find you a cold case, but if I hear you’ve done anything to incite anyone I’ll cut you off.”

“I’ve been through your cold cases.”

“What? All of them?” He doesn’t bother to doubt it.

“They’re all hideously boring.”

“Then maybe you could see your way to helping us prevent other people being bored to death.”

Sherlock’s is a sneer of minimal effort. “You can find anything you’re worried might have an encore and bring it to me.”

“Alright,” he says, as though accepting a challenge rather than agreeing to perform a favour. 

Sherlock continues to stare at him until he decides he’s had enough and leaves.

* * *

Sherlock is aware that he sobs in his sleep. John, for his part, sleeps almost twice as badly as he had. John’s used to night terrors though, and at least he doesn’t question Sherlock about them in the morning. It’s not that they pretend it doesn’t happen; they simply refrain from drawing attention to it.

Sherlock wonders if he ever screams. He’s caught himself, waking up, in the tail end of a gasp, but he thinks he’s quiet. If he weren’t it would show on John, or in the biscuits and soups that Mrs. Hudson is ever more constantly bringing him. He’s certain she knows what’s happened, and he feels no small amount of adoration for her, for how she treats him no differently than she would if he’d simply been beaten.

He wakes on some days, on sheets clinging to his sweat, with the remnants of a cry muffled into his pillow, damp with tears. He wakes with his heart thudding in his chest, and he gasps in deep lungfuls of air. He wakes, and he grits his teeth and hates himself for still being so prey to panic over something that is **over**.

He wakes on those days, and he thinks they are far better than when he wakes with all such troubles and an erection. He does not have self-loathing to spare, when he wakes like that, on being prey to panic. He waits on those days, when he doesn’t wake to his own cooling semen, for his arousal to fade. He has once, and only once, dealt with it by undulating his hips against the bed. His flood of release had been followed by one of self-loathing so heavy that he hadn’t been able to move for three hours afterward. He will not do that to himself again.

He wakes, and he waits, and he thinks, and he hates. His left knee will scar more deeply than any of the other marks. His bruises are fading and he has chosen this place. He has picked at the scabs, pulled at the surrounding skin until it has become one giant mark of his own creation. It will not scar deeply enough to impair movement, but it will scar noticeably.

Until it does scar, he can pick at it, sliding his fingernails around and under the edges, peeling the scab back bit by bit, every tear causing his brain to stutter, to focus on sensation not reason.

He can lift the scab off, chunk by chunk, and let the blood overflow and trickle on down to the sheets. He’ll throw those out too, it’s a small price to pay for the instantaneous, legal distraction.

He can rip the greatest part of the scab off and revel in a good fourteen seconds of mental silence while the nerve endings tingle. He can mop up the blood and race a renewed flow to the loo and bubbling, stinging, cleansing iodine. 

If John gives him any reproving looks from the doorway then he’s ripped it open in his sleep. If John has any doubts he’ll keep them to himself; he’s smart enough to know that Sherlock lives on a scale of self-destruction and only responds to being caught out by trying to outdo himself.

If John insists that the iodine be followed by a chaser of tea tree and proper bandaging, then Sherlock is really too exhausted to do anything but frown as he accepts the gesture.

* * *

The results for the viral tests come back. Sherlock doesn’t feel anything when he learns he’s clear. John manages to be ecstatic, and Sherlock, who can’t begrudge him his pleasure, also can’t help but return his smile. John takes this as a sign and kisses him in exactly the way he doesn’t when Sherlock lies on the couch unspeaking. It’s nice, though Sherlock knows he’d be enjoying it more if he weren’t so continuously bogged down with boredom and the melancholy it brings. Still, he enjoys it more than any other activity right now. 

It’s just kissing, not kissing leading to more. John’s happy, and he’s communicating that, and it might be a bit infectious. He brings Sherlock closer to happiness at least. Sherlock can acknowledge that there are things to be happy about. John has refrained from calling him lucky again, because he does have some sense of self-preservation, but he’s made it clear that he thinks they’ve cause for celebration.

Sherlock is sufficiently distracted that he doesn’t notice the approaching footsteps. It’s not until he hears a discomforted, “Oh, er,” from the doorway that he’d left open that he and John break apart. Sherlock watches John’s eyes widen then dart to where Lestrade stands, case folders in hand, held up like a shield. 

“Your landlady let me in. Your door was open so...” Lestrade stares anywhere but at the men in front of him. “I didn’t know, uh, congratulations? How long has this been...” He makes a vague gesture with the hand holding the folders.

Sherlock sighs. “Anyone with the least bit of observational ability would have noticed when you called me to see that murdered barrister. Our clothes were rumpled. He had a bruise on his neck in the shape of my mouth!” There is more than a hint of exasperation by the end of the sentence.

Lestrade’s expression announces that he had not demonstrated the least hint of observational ability.

“It wasn’t a secret.” John shrugs. “Only it hasn’t come up.” He hesitates, and adds in a slightly threatening tone, “It’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

“No, of course not!” He waves the folders again. “It’s the things they were saying when they, I had thought it was because you lived together, but if you’re... I didn’t consider how that would, I’m sorry.”

“Yes, we’ve been through this. You are an indefatigable font of sorrow. Do you have anything interesting?”

Lestrade waves the folders again, then hands them to Sherlock. “You’ll have to judge for yourself. They’re the best I can do right now. You shouldn’t even have them, and if I hear you’ve done anything to harass a suspect—”

“Yes, yes, you’ll rain your wrath upon me. I consider myself warned.”

“I suppose that’s all then.” Lestrade opens his mouth, shuts it, then opens it again. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds.”

“Don’t start,” John cuts him off with a slight smile.

“Alright then. I am happy for you.” He turns back to the door.

“Have fun.” He slips out, closing the door behind him.

* * *

John is washing the kettle when Sherlock steps up behind him and whispers, breath warm against the shell of his ear, “I want you to tie my hands.”

John freezes.

It takes him three seconds to put the kettle on the counter and turn to look up at Sherlock. When he does, Sherlock drops a length of cloth in his wet hands.

“Do it,” he says, voice deep and hands held out in front of him.

John leans forward before he can think, then stops, horror flooding him as he registers the meaning of the cloth against his fingers.

“No,” he says, leaning back against the counter. “No, why would you, no.”

“I need you to. I refuse to spend the rest of my life in this flat. I need to know that the next time someone restrains me I won’t fall to pieces.” Sherlock stares directly into John’s eyes. “I trust you to do this for me.”

John can’t, he really can’t. The image of Sherlock, hands tied together under his chin, body bruising and seeping and forced open against the skip, reasserts itself with every brush of thread against his fingers. He can’t. Sherlock can’t ask him to recreate anything those men did to him. His stomach churns.

Sherlock must read the response in his expression, because he grabs John’s hands in his and widens his eyes. “This will help keep me safe. You know I’m not going to stay out of danger. All you can do is help me prepare for it.”

He’s telling the truth; John hates him for it.

“I don’t want to do anything like anything they did to you.”

“You won’t. You’ll stop when I tell you. You’ll take it off when I want. It will be different. I won’t get confused.”

John twists the fabric between his fingers. “I don’t know if I –” 

“You can,” Sherlock cuts him off, “and I would much rather it were you than anyone else.”

John knows he’s going to do it. He knows that they can keep talking about it, but what’s going to be said has been, and it won’t help anything to prolong this.

He reaches out and wraps the cloth around Sherlock’s wrists.

“Tie it properly,” Sherlock demands.

John holds his hands together, then ties them tightly, knots it well. The churning in his stomach has stopped; it’s frozen ice now.

Sherlock is perfectly still for a second, then two, three, then he speaks, voice tight and high, “Get it off. Now.”

John’s hands move with the speed and precision only adrenaline brings to him. He holds the cloth as Sherlock flexes his freed wrists, pupils dilated and breath quickened with what is not arousal.

“I, we will need to do this again, later. For longer. It will be fine. I knew I could trust you.”

The ice in john’s stomach turns to warmth, but it’s still discomfort. “I didn’t like that.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock scoffs. “Neither did I. It’s necessary.”

Sherlock takes the scarf back, and presses a quick kiss just above the bridge of John’s nose before rushing out of the kitchen.

John can recognise the thanks, the appreciation, but he never wants to do it again.

Before long, it becomes a common occurrence.

* * *

Sherlock is doing well, all considered. He is no longer bleeding from unpleasant orifices, or, in fact, any orifice. He is healing well. He is not entirely morose as the cases Lestrade brings him, while not up to his usual standards of interest, are slightly more engaging than his alternative activity of lying on the couch thinking about how much he hates himself. He is recovering, and John can restrain him for almost three minutes before the panic overwhelms him. That’s almost enough time to get himself out of most bonds. He will need to account for the additional panic due to being restrained by someone who is not John, but progress is being made. 

He misses the thrill of following a fresh trail, of confronting a suspect himself. He misses the thrill of danger and the rush of adrenaline that he can’t get from texting Lestrade the name of a guilty party and a series of deductions fished out of the badly-preserved evidence in a case file.

He can’t, and he doesn’t want to, help the surge of frustration that rises in him every time a fascinating incident is reported in the newspaper. He knows he won’t be let anywhere near the crime scene, and the fascinating, beautiful puzzle is being wasted on minds like Anderson’s.

Sherlock likely couldn’t chase anyone down just yet, even if the opportunity were presented, but he’s beginning to truly understand that there will come a time when he will be able to do that again. Physically, at least. Certainly Scotland Yard will require his help again. It’s obvious from the look of Lestrade when he brings more old cases by that the new one’s aren’t going as well as he’d like. They’ll see, soon enough, how essential he is; he’s sure of it. Nothing can keep him away from the game for long.

Sherlock is not the only person to feel this way, and he’s certainly not the only one plagued by boredom. Sherlock has enemies, real, crazy, criminal-mastermind enemies. So he’s pleasantly surprised – but not really all that shocked – when the one he will admit, in the sanctity of his own mind, is the most engaging decides to be accommodating enough to bring fresh evidence to him.

It’s Mrs. Hudson who brings the box upstairs.

“They’re a bit heavy,” she comments as she hands the package off to John. “I was wondering who’d send flowers at this time, since there haven’t been any before, but I suppose there are always reasons for flowers. Do you dears have a vase?”

Sherlock jumps up from the couch, dropping a folder on the coffee table. “No, we don’t.” He flashes a smile. “Could we borrow one?”

“Oh.” She blinks. “Yes, of course. I should have something that will work.” With one last glance at the long flowerbox she heads down to her rooms.

“You don’t think it’s flowers,” John states as he sets the box on the table and Sherlock runs his hands over the ridges of the lid.

“No.” Sherlock grins and undoes the bow. “I think I’ve been sent something much nicer than that.”

“Well she’s right, it is heavy.” John pauses, then holds his hands over the lid before Sherlock can lift it. “You think this is from Moriarty?”

“I don’t think I have that many well-wishers who’d send me flowers at this point. Especially,” he pushes John’s hand aside, “unusually heavy ones.”

“Try not to get us blown up.”

“I always try, now let me do this before Mrs. Hudson comes back, unless you’d prefer her to see whatever Moriarty considers a get-well-soon present.”

John is silent as Sherlock slowly lifts the lid off the box.

He remains silent when he sees what’s inside.

“Oh,” says Sherlock. “That’s... well.”

* * *

Sherlock can hear John in the hall heading Mrs. Hudson off before she can see what they’ve been given. He tells her that they’ll call the police themselves – though Sherlock plans to wait until he’s garnered everything he can from the gift – and asks her what she can remember about the delivery man. It’s a dead end of questioning, Sherlock is sure. Moriarty isn’t sloppy enough to be caught out like that, and he won’t ignore the evidence he has at hand.

And what evidence it is. Crude, but effective. Pedestrian but poetic. 

Thirteen freshly severed – with a hot blade, the signs are obvious – penises delivered in a box meant for a dozen roses. Each wrapped, separately, in slightly bloody cling film.

He knows whose they are, or were; he can recognise most of them.

It explains why Mycroft couldn’t find them. If anyone could get to them first it would be Moriarty. It also confirms his suspicion that Moriarty had not been involved with his attackers. If the nature of the gift hadn’t convinced him, the florists card that accompanies it leaves him no doubt.

It’s a light pink rectangle, with a darker image of red carnations on the bottom left corner and a silvery-yellow _‘Get Well Soon’_ in flowing script across the top. On it is written, in cheap biro, ‘You’re not allowed to forfeit until **I** ’ the letter has been written with enough force that he can feel its outline on the back of the card, ‘break you. Get back in the game.’ 

This might be the best gift he’s ever received. It’s horrific, of course, but it’s likely his key back into Scotland Yard. That’s worth far more than a visceral twinge of horror on some pathetic, primal level over what happened to men who deserved nothing better. 

This can’t be everything. He pulls on a pair of gloves and lifts the topmost penis – he recognises it as belonging to the man who’d most often held his mobile – out of the box. Under it is a small jar filled with an ounce of earth. Life is wonderful again.

John reenters the kitchen alone and pauses at the sight of him. “If you let that dribble on the table...” he says, quickly averting his eyes from the object in Sherlock’s hand. “Do you know you’re grinning like a madman? It’s...”

Sherlock uses the hand holding the penis to gesture toward the bottle. “He sent me dirt!” His voice may be a bit high with enthusiasm.

“Disturbing.”

Sherlock picks the bottle out with his free hand and replaces the penis. The next one he pulls out has a petal attached to the cling film, as does the next and the next. They all have petals from different flowers, and this is the most fun he’s had in weeks.

“Should I call Scotland Yard?” John asks when Sherlock has finished sorting out all the petals. “Or are you going to do it yourself?”

Sherlock grunts, then refocuses on him. “Oh, yes, of course. Bring me my phone.”

John fetches it from the living room without anything Sherlock registers as complaint.

He strips off one glove and sends a text to Lestrade, 'New case. I will be involved in investigation by necessity'.

“How much do you know about botany?” he asks as he waits for a response, periodically rearranging the petals with his gloved hand.

“Roses are red. Violets are blue.” John shrugs. He keeps glancing into the box and staring away. He does not seem nearly so enthused.

“Both simple and flawed.” He frowns as his phone vibrates. 'What’s this?'

'Moriarty has sent me a flowerbox containing the severed penises of the men who assaulted me'

He rearranges the petals again. The yellowish-red colour of the soil can’t be local.

'He sent you what in a box?'

He doesn’t see how he could be more clear, 'All 13 of them'

'We’ll be right over'

'I’ll need to use your computers. There’s a specific analysis I have to conduct'. It’s not entirely truthful insofar as solving the case is concerned.

It takes several minutes for him to receive the next reply, but when he does Sherlock lets the smile spread over his face.

'ok'

* * *

Twelve petals and one bottle of soil.

He was right about the soil. It’s not local; trace analysis shows that it’s from India.

India and twelve petals.

The scent of the petals cannot be a lead. The colours are unlikely to be meaningful by themselves but the flowers they came from likely have some significance. 

Where colour matters is in the earth. The cause, of course, is iron. 

Iron leads to magma – which leads nowhere – and to anemia – but neither deficiency nor excess show promise as leads without a narrowing down of what they may be applied to – but eventually to steel.

John is watching him from across the room. He won’t let Sherlock out of his sight. It’s not flattering. He’s not incompetent. What happened has already happened, and it will only happen once. The scrutiny is distracting and it’s wasting time. John could be focussing on finding the meaning of the petals. He would be wrong, most likely, but he might stumble on to something.

Steel and India, steel from India, may lead to any company with dealings in steel processing, for a start. 

But the petals, all twelve of them, mean something. He has to assume that he’s received everything he’ll need to solve this. 

It’s the mirabilis jalapa, the four o’ clock flower, that catches his attention, turning the twelve into a signifier of time, of clocks.

And there was, he can remember from an article glanced at weeks ago, a floral clock constructed out front of some corporate office or other.

He searches to internet from his mobile. Terribly simple, a flower clock constructed outside a corporate office celebrating the acquisition of an Indian steel company and its resources. 

Usually he’d do the legwork, go to the offices and look for anything noteworthy. But, as the scab on his knee reminds him every time it brushes against the fabric of his trousers, he can’t do that right now. Moriarty must know that, so this must be solvable with what he has at his disposal.

He searches for a picture of the planned clock, and finds one of the company’s CEO standing beside the angled platform on which the clock is built. He thinks he sees signs of distress in the man’s posture and the hang of his suit but he can’t be sure. The picture is uselessly small on his mobile screen.

He does a search for the CEO. What he finds gives him pause.

He was right about the signs of distress. The CEO’s son has been missing for weeks. 

Sherlock recognises the son.

The missing son, pictured with a blazer and a charming smile, is one of the men who’d chased him down outside the bar. He’d been the one who’d brought John’s name into it. He’d been the one holding Sherlock’s mobile, recording the assault. He must have avoided showing his face in the videos.

It comes together. Sherlock can’t be sure if he can’t do legwork, but he can text Lestrade to tell him where to look.

* * *

Apparently, no one had found it suspicious when the back of the angled platform had been uncovered and then recovered with Earth in the dead of night. 

The police had dug through the dirt. They’d pushed through the hollow platform’s backing to find thirteen men, bound, gagged, and mutilated beyond what the package would suggest. Over half of them were, and still are, alive. The police seem to consider it a great success.

Sherlock finds himself slightly disappointed that the game is over so soon, but the real prize is that the police are reminded how much they need him. He is immeasurably pleased by that.

Mycroft has already been alerted, and the evidence is disappearing as effectively as it had the last time. Sherlock suspects that the men who survived Moriarty will regret doing so once his brother starts in on them. He doesn’t particularly care; they’re not interesting anymore. 

It should be comforting to know what’s become of the men, and it is, in a way, comforting to know that they hold no residual fascination for him beyond the role they’ve played in this puzzle.

He hopes that this will convince the Yard to reconsider their stance on calling him in. It likely will. He’s saved lives; he’s saved the lives of people who hurt him. But he’s saved lives and then had the evidence that he’s done so disappear. Even so, it’s the quickest a case has been solved since the last time he’d worked for them. Their pattern recognition can’t be that bad.

* * *

Three days after Sherlock has found his attackers he turns to John on the couch and says, “I’d like to fellate you.”

John manages to catch most of the tea that dribbles out of his nose on the back of his sleeve.

The announcement obviously excites him. The changes in posture and breathing are consistent with previous arousal responses.

His tone though, when he responds, sounds almost angry. “Would you really?”

“I wouldn’t say so unless I did.”

“Mmm, but what are your reasons?”

“I thought it would make you happy.” Sherlock lets confusion fill his voice and shrugs with the beginnings of offense. “I might enjoy it.”

“I expect you know,” John lowers his eyes as he sets his cup down, “exactly how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

“But you’re upset now.”

“I am.”

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment of genuine confusion before asking, “Why?”

“Because I don’t know whether you want me or whether you just _trust me to do this for you_.” The bitterness in his voice is palpable. “Do you actually want to do this because you think it’ll be nice? Or do you want it because you’ve decided you can have your hands tied for long enough and you’re moving on to phase two of making sure everything’s going to be alright?”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I feel enough like shit when you ask me to restrain you. I’m not going to let you make me feel that way about sex.”

“Ah.” Sherlock sneers. “Yes, I can see how having me want to touch you would make you feel like shit.”

“Come off it. We’ve already done this. I want you. What I don’t want is to be used like that by you. You found the men that did that to you, and suddenly you want to do this. I can’t tell whether it’s because you want me or because you want to test yourself.”

“Why should you care? You get off either way.” 

“I care,” John stands, looking down on Sherlock, “because every time you hand me that scarf I feel ill.”

“This has nothing to do with—” 

“This has everything to do with it. You want me to do the things they did to you because they did them to you. I won’t. Not for that reason.”

Sherlock lets out a puff of laughter. “Do you enjoy being unbearably ignorant? You couldn’t predict my motivations with an illustrated guide. You can justify it however you want, but this isn’t because you’re uncomfortable with what I’ve asked you to do.” Sherlock turns away. “It’s because you see me differently now.”

“I don’t see you differently because of what was done to you.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“I simply refuse to recreate it. You can’t do things like hand me a scarf and make me do that to you and think it’s going to be okay for me.” John throws out an arm and gestures widely. “Do you have any idea what it was like seeing them do those things to you? Knowing it was already done and being unable to stop it?”

“No. I was actually a bit too busy being gang-raped to consider the effects of my actions on others.”

“I’m not saying it was worse. I’m saying that it was terrible. I’m saying that you can’t keep asking me to relive seeing you tied up. Other people were hurt too.”

“Oh I’m sure it was just terrible,” Sherlock’s snarls, “seeing other people take what should have been yours.”

John twitches toward the tea, looking for a fraction of a second as though he intends to kick it over on him. “No, you horrible bastard. It was terrible seeing you hurt. I was waiting for another video so that maybe we could find you. Waiting to see them torture you more. Every time they sent one I watched them hurt you and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I couldn’t save you. I couldn’t help you at all. When they said things I couldn’t be there to tell you they were wrong. Nothing I could do helped you,” he finishes quietly. 

“Forgive my lack of sympathy for any trauma caused by being unable to feel like a hero.”

John’s mouth drops open. “Fuck you.”

“Eloquent.”

“It wasn’t about heroics. Do you know, for all that you embody ungrateful bastard, I personally thank god every day that Anderson recognised the skip in the final picture? What matters is that you were saved, not who-”

“Anderson?” Laughter bubbles up in Sherlock’s throat. “Anderson found me?”

“Yes.” John crosses his arms. “You didn’t figure that out? I suppose you didn’t even wonder. You’re too busy thinking of yourself as broken to concern yourself with anything else.”

Sherlock realises he’s hyperventilating. “No. oh. Well at least now he’s done something to justify them giving him his job.”

“Yes, he has, and I wouldn’t dare to hope it could result in the least amount of respect—”

Sherlock’s laughter cuts John off. “No. no, it won’t. It will not.”

“Fine. I don’t care. Treat him however you want. But don’t treat me as if I’m ridiculous for not wanting to let you use me to hurt yourself.”

John gives him a second to reply. When he doesn’t, John stomps out of the room. Sherlock remains motionless as he thumps heavily up the stairs.

At the slam of the door Sherlock rises and walks slowly into the kitchen. 

In what is definitely not a tantrum, he decides to conduct an impromptu experiment on the effects of velocity on the shattering patterns of ceramics when brought into contact with a tile floor.

* * *

They don’t speak for the rest of that day or the next. Their avoidance of each other is almost artful. Confrontation comes in the morning, when John wanders downstairs and smiles at Sherlock in the kitchen, too sleep-addled to remember he’s still supposed to be furious. 

Sherlock stares at him in the following moment as conflicting emotions play across both their faces.

“I can make eggs,” Sherlock says, “if you want.”

John is aware that it’s not physically impossible for Sherlock to say _“I’m sorry.”_ He’s actually heard the words come out of the man’s mouth. He’s clever enough to realise though that he’s never heard them in an entirely sincere context. He’s heard them sound sincere, but he as well as anyone knows that’s different.

This is likely the best he’s going to get as a sincere apology. He’s not sure he thinks it’s good enough. But if this doesn’t end now there’s going to be at least two more days of pretending he lives with a phantom. If it doesn’t end now it’s going to get worse, and if he doesn’t say yes, Sherlock is going to say that he didn’t mean he’d make them for him or something equally juvenile. One of them is going to have to be the adult here. It’s very likely always going to be him.

“If you’d like. I could make some toast to go with them.”

Sherlock nods, and they spend the next whole minute behaving like functional adults.

“I didn’t know,” Sherlock speaks eventually, staring down at the eggs, “that asking you to tie my hands would upset you so much.”

“Yes you did.” John really wants this to end, but he’s not going to accept that. He infuses as much warmth into his tone as he can bear, considering the subject. “You’re far too observant not to have known. You were too self-absorbed to care.” He can hear Sherlock’s intake of breath and hurries on before he can take too much offense. “It’s not that I mind that about you. You find a way to make it charming actually, sometimes.” He fiddles with the toaster. “But with things like that, it’s...”

“Hurtful, yes, alright. While we’re at it, it’s fairly horrible to be told that your boyfriend thinks you want to use him to recreate your rape.”

John keeps his opinions on that statement to himself.

“I wanted you before,” Sherlock says, “and I want you now. Nothing’s changed that.”

John stares at Sherlock for a moment. He’s not sure if what Sherlock is saying is true, but he’s willing to believe Sherlock believes it. He wants to believe Sherlock believes it. 

He’s still a bit angry. Sherlock probably is too; they’ve left it to fester. Even so, he pulls away from the toast and pulls Sherlock away from the eggs. He draws his hand up the back of Sherlock’s neck, curls his fingers in his hair, and pulls his head down to press their lips together.

Breakfast ends up being slightly overdone.

* * *

Sherlock really does want to do things to John, with John. For John and for himself. His efforts to convince John of this are coming along nicely. He remains perpetually surprised by how much convincing John needs. He suspects that there is some aspect of retribution in this. He’d run off when John was hard and wanting often enough that John’s now doing what he can to reverse the situation. It’s better than the alternatives.

He’s been able to touch himself again for weeks without problems. It’s different, obviously, when someone else is doing it, and it will be even more different when John’s doing it, but for now he’s doing alright for himself. 

He can take his own fingers without issue. He’d stopped bleeding a while ago, and he’s stopped fearing he’ll start again.

He masturbates because he can, because there’s nothing permanently, significantly wrong with him and it should help him feel comfortable with everything again. He stimulates himself, and his body responds to the sensations as is only natural. He massages and rubs, and sometimes he stays hard and multiorgasmic. If there is a pattern to it, he’s been able to conclude unequivocally that it has nothing to do with how much he’s enjoying the stimulation. 

He’s fine, really, and he’s ready to move on to more.

* * *

Lestrade still hasn’t let him into another crime scene, but he’s sending him texts and pictures for fresh cases. It’s not quite as exciting, but Sherlock enjoys the narcissistic thrill that comes from solving a case remotely while the police, given every advantage, fail to make any headway on their own.

He sends Lestrade a message revealing the identity of the culprit, his location, and the location of the murder weapon. It won’t be long before they come across a crime too detailed – too beautifully intricate – to be described in a few lines of text and a low-quality picture. They’ll be too dependent on him to not call him in.

He drops on to the couch beside John and demands a kiss. John puts up no resistance and goes so far as to upgrade the activity to kissing with intent. When John’s fingers find their way just below the waistline of Sherlock’s trousers Sherlock pulls back and says, in a voice calculated to get the best response – it’s deep and needy, and he’s noticed John shiver every time he’s used it – “Please.”

John shudders, breathes deep. “I still have, in my wallet, condoms. It’s in my coat.”

Of course, yes, they’d need that. It hasn’t been quite three months yet, and he hasn’t been fully tested. He doesn’t want to think about that. Sherlock stumbles to his feet and manages somehow to get over to the coat rack, retrieve John’s wallet, and make his way back to the couch without falling over himself.

John fumbles foil packages out of his wallet. He kisses Sherlock again as he works to undo his trousers. Sherlock reaches out to pull off John’s clothes in kind. 

He’s done little more than lower John’s zip and lift his own hips to let John strip him when John breaks the kiss. John moves from the couch to sit on the coffee table in front of him.

“You’re sure?” he asks, ripping open a foil packet as the table creaks under his weight.

Sherlock attempts to stare at him with condescension. He can’t be sure if he’s managed anything other than lust-addled.

“Yes. Now for god’s sake will you–”

He finishes with a gasp. It’s the sensation of fingers on him, John’s fingers on him, steady, experienced, rolling a latex sheath down over him. It’s not quite like anything he’s ever felt before. It’s strange with an edge of uncomfortable, but he actually rather likes the sensation and he doesn’t think it’s just because John’s doing it to him.

“Yes,” he says again as John’s hands move along his length, and then John leans fully forward and envelops him.

The wet heat of a mouth is familiar even through the latex. Sherlock jumps and thrusts up as John’s tongue flicks against his head. John takes in as much of him as he can, sucking him deeper and rolling his tongue. It’s good. It’s John. It’s making his brain short-circuit. 

John pulls back, swirls his tongue around the tip, then applies full, intense suction to the head before swallowing Sherlock’s length down again. It’s great. It’s wonderful. It’s too much and he’s losing control.

A sudden wave of fear comes over him. He can’t lose control, not now.

“Stop. Stop,” he says, and before he can unclench his hands from the cushions and move to push John’s head away, John is off of him. Worry starts to colour his features from where he looks up at Sherlock, one hand on the ground for balance and the other heavy on Sherlock’s leg.

“Too soon?” he asks, pushing himself up. “I did something –” 

“No, no.” Sherlock twists his hands in the bottom of his own shirt. “I just needed a second. It was good. It was too good. I was going to-” he hesitates for a fraction of a second. He is not going to ruin this. He is not going to need a second chance. John stopped the moment he said; that is really all he needed. “... so quickly. Embarrassing.”

He can see the start of a reassured, maybe even smug, smile on John’s face.

Before John can speak, Sherlock slides forward.

“Let me.” He drops to his knees in front of John. They’re too close for the position to be comfortable. His legs reach under the table and if he leans forward as he needs to his back will be hunched terribly.

“Yes, alright, just let me...” John maneuvers around Sherlock and stands, pushing his clothes down and stepping out of them. Sherlock turns to face him as John pulls off his socks before sitting back on the couch, leaving his jumper. He pushes the table farther away when he reaches for the other condom.

“It’ll be less uncomfortable like this, yeah?” John says as he rips the package open.

Sherlock watches John roll the condom down his length and weighs the physical necessity of the gesture against the psychological equality of it.

The position is less awkward than it would have been, but only slightly.

Sherlock leans forward and wraps his lips around the head. He flicks his tongue as John did. The latex is smooth, the taste less than ideal. He wants to taste John, and he will, someday.

He sucks once, then pulls off and presses a kiss to John’s thigh. He would simply try to mimic John’s actions, but he wants to hear his voice.

“Tell me what to do,” he speaks against John’s thigh. “Tell me what you like.”

He moves back to twirl his tongue around John’s head and curl his hand around his shaft.

“That’s great. Can you take in more?”

Sherlock moves his lips down, rippling his tongue against the underside as his mouth is filled. The reservoir at the tip of the condom bumps against the back of his throat, and he has to pull back and cough before smoothing it down and retaking John’s length as deep as he can.

“Tighten your grip. Move your hand to the same rhythm as your mouth.”

Sherlock adds suction without instruction.

“Yes, that’s good.” John’s voice is breathy. “Take your other hand and,” he gasps, “if you have to pull your mouth off, use it to,” he grunts, “keep on going.”

Sherlock is focussed on his task but he’s fairly sure that John is censoring himself. The intent may be sweet, to keep things simple because John still thinks of him as a beginner, or to keep him from asking for anything that might make Sherlock uncomfortable. In practice, it’s annoying. Sherlock can’t do this well if John won’t tell him what he really likes. He doesn’t need to be coddled. John doesn’t need to be coy. This doesn’t need to be particularly gentle; it’s already so different from what he experienced before. It’s not just the latex barrier. It’s that it’s John, who smells right, has the right length and thickness. Who moves right and moans right. It’s the right voice washing over him in the right place. So no, John doesn’t need to censor his requests. Sherlock would do whatever he’d ask and he’d enjoy it.

The noise that works its way up his throat is half grunt of annoyance, half murmur of assent.

John’s hips jerk in response, pushing up until Sherlock has to pull back. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t, that was good.”

Sherlock nods, then wraps his lips around John’s length, uses his free hand to press down against his hip, and tries again.

The incoherent noise John makes is delicious, and the feeling of him pressing up against Sherlock’s palm, not quite hard enough to be able to press further into his mouth is, Sherlock finds, unaccountably arousing.

He works up a rhythm and John’s words dissolve into short, repeated moans. The thrusting that first met every one of Sherlock’s vocalizations turns into a rocking motion under him.

“I’m, yes, now.” Sherlock hears, and there is one last thrust, and he can take it. He tightens his grasp and his lips and moans one last, long time as he feels the condom’s reservoir inflate against the back of his throat.

John pulls him up and pulls the filled condom off with tissues that he must have pulled over while Sherlock was getting his wallet.

“Stand up,” John says, and he rises without thinking. The height this puts him at, standing between John’s spread legs, is perfect. Without preamble, John swallows him. 

Sherlock’s knees buckle.

John catches him by the shirt as he slips out of his mouth, and laughs at him as he pulls Sherlock down onto the couch.

John pushes him back against the cushions and the arm.

“Put your leg over the back. The other foot on the floor.”

Sherlock shifts into the required position. John leans over in a way that’s probably not comfortable and swallows him again.

It’s good. It’s amazing. It’s all amazing. He’s just made John come, himself, with his own hands and mouth, and he’s going to do it again someday, and John really does want him. He wants Sherlock, even after he’s come. He wants to do this, and oh, he is good at it, and Sherlock wants him to do it, wants him to want to do it, so much.

There are hands at the base of him and mouth over the rest of him. There is suction, and tongue, and warm heat, and so much for his mind to catalogue, and it’s getting harder to think.

He comes with no warning but a sharp cry.

John laughs at Sherlock’s soft sigh as he pulls the condom off with a tissue. It is an entirely pleased sound. He waits for Sherlock to shift into a less obscene position, then leans into him and kisses him again on the mouth.

“That was good, right?” he asks, tone making the question rhetorical.

Sherlock really can’t do anything but nod in response.

“Good.” John smiles, and they sit together, shoulder to shoulder, until the haze of bliss fades.

* * *

The three month mark passes and Sherlock sets an appointment to take a rapid test. He insists on going alone; he can’t have John following him every time he leaves the flat. 

He’s not nervous. If he has it, he’s had it for months, and no amount of worrying about it is going to help. 

He’s far too rational for that, so the tight knot that forms in his stomach the moment he enters the building and endures through the pre-test counselling and the wait for the results is certainly not nerves.

It’s all very simple. The doctor comes back, tells him that he tested negative, and reiterates the test’s accuracy rate. His stomach unclenches as the doctor – who has a young child, is planning a holiday, is considering an affair, can’t cook well, occasionally smokes – continues to talk at him. All in all the procedure takes less than an hour.

Before he catches a cab for the long drive home – he’d chosen a clinic as far away from the flat as justifiable – he stops to buy lubrication and condoms. 

He fully intends to leap at John the moment he gets back, but he doesn’t quite have the chance. John takes one look at his face as he enters, and his insistence on observation must be paying off because he can barely get the door closed behind him before John sighs, “Oh, thank God,” and grabs him.

The kiss is enthusiastic, almost clumsily so. Sherlock only loses himself in it for a moment before he starts dragging John toward his room.

“I want you” he says, once they’ve reached his door, “inside me, now.”

For a line that must be featured in a thousand terrible pornos, it works well. John’s breath catches. He nods.

They tumble into the room, only managing not to fall by dint of Sherlock grabbing the door and using their momentum to turn and press John against it.

John works at the buttons of his shirt, hands moving up until Sherlock’s attempt to remove his jumper forces him to break contact. He raises his arms so Sherlock can guide the fabric over his head. The moment he’s freed he returns to his task of baring Sherlock, who makes things difficult by leaning down to kiss along the edge of his scar.

John freezes for a moment, then closes his eyes and relaxes into the contact. He continues his attempts to unbutton the shirt as Sherlock moves to suck on a spot just underneath his collarbone. Sherlock’s contented rumble shoots through them both as he sucks on John’s skin and moves his hands down. 

John’s trousers take little effort to drop. His hands slow and he lets loose a low moan as Sherlock slowly drags his one remaining article of clothing down over his growing erection.

“Not fair,” he pants as his fingers work open buttons he can’t even see.

“Of course not.” Sherlock licks the reddened skin under his mouth, then stands straight as John undoes the last button and pushes the shirt off his shoulders. “You shouldn’t expect anything else.”

Sherlock reaches down to his own trousers. Instead of lowering them he reaches deep into his pocket and withdraws a line of condoms and a very small tube.

“They’re already slicked,” he says as he presses them into John’s hands, “but I wasn’t certain how much...” He decides to finish his statement by kissing John again, leaning into him.

“How do you want me, hands and knees?” he asks, breaking the kiss and turning to the bed.

“As long as you’re comfortable,” John says as Sherlock sits on the bed to push off his shoes and socks, then shimmies out of the rest of his clothes.

“And you,” Sherlock says. “Obviously,”

“I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock watches intently as John rolls a condom over his length and smoothes it down. 

Sherlock leaps up, bounds over to John, and kisses him again, deeply, running his fingers over John’s covered length before pulling him back to the bed.

He kneels, shins and forearms pressed against his sheets. He can feel the bed shift as John moves around behind him. One palm caresses the curve of his lower back, and then his legs are being spread further and there’s a slick knuckle pressed against him. He relaxes against it, enjoys the sensation of John moving it over him, massaging him. He makes a noise of impatience, and when it doesn’t get the immediate response he wants he adds, “I said now.”

He can feel a huff of what might be laughter from behind him but the knuckle is removed, replaced by the head of John’s cock.

“You’re ready?” John asks, hands gentle on Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock leans back against him.

John pushes forward, entering him slowly and smoothly.

It’s good. Sherlock is surrounded by familiarity and comfort. He’s pressed into his own soft sheets, so different from back-alley pavement. He’s surrounded by the smells and sounds and colours of his own familiar living space, of John. Those are John’s hands on his hips, comforting and guiding, not bruising and forcing. That’s John inside him, exactly as he wanted. If he’s not as tight for him as once he may have been, that’s fine.

He can still clench around John; he can take him without blood or pain. John fits perfectly.

Sherlock rocks against him. Soon enough, John rocks back. It takes a while to find a rhythm that works for both of them. When that rhythm can’t be kept up, the position is changed until it can. Sherlock ends up on his back, shoulders pressed into the smooth sheets. The padding of the bed holds his weight; there is no sting in his back. 

He can see John moving, see the hand pumping his own prick in time to the thrusts. He can observe as John’s fingers circle the head, squeeze on the shaft. He can see the rise and fall of John’s chest, count his breaths. He does, until he forgets how numbers need to flow in order. 

Sherlock loses himself, without reservation, to the sensations. He stops trying to catalogue. His world narrows to the hands on him and the pressure building within him. Perhaps he should try to last longer, to prolong the build of pleasure, but that would take effort; he’s expending all he has on trying not to die from pleasure.

He shudders, and he comes, and as his body clenches he pulls John over the edge with him.

They collapse, and John rolls to the side and pulls out before Sherlock can remember how to protest.

John kisses his shoulder.

Sherlock rediscovers how arms work, then shifts to lie across John and capture his lips. It says what he needs to.

They fall asleep together.

* * *

They are woken by a ringing.

Sherlock kisses John again before pulling himself to the end of the bed and reaching down to fish the mobile out of his trousers. John watches lazily as Sherlock stares at the screen, and then he’s being grabbed, Sherlock leaning over him with a smile that looks painfully wide, practically vibrating with excitement. 

“They’re calling me in. They know they can’t solve it without me. They don’t even know what to look for. They’re calling me in and it’s fresh!”

John stares up at him as he moves away and starts shaking the wrinkles out of his trousers. 

“Showers,” John says clearly. “We have time to shower first.”

Sherlock stares at him for a second. “Quick showers.” He drops his clothes. “I’m in first.”

He actually runs out of the room and into the bath.

John blinks after him, then takes a deep breath and reaches for the mobile Sherlock had left by his side. 

The text is from Lestrade. It mentions that he will be supervised, and that if Sherlock even attempts to run off after a lead independently he’ll be banned from everything forever.

John doesn’t think that will be a problem, at least, not for a while. It’s entirely likely that Sherlock will one day go back to running off after danger whenever he feels like it. John won’t even pretend to mind so long as he’s running off with him. For now he’ll have to content himself with this, and as far as he’s concerned, it’s more than enough to be content with.

Things aren’t quite what they were, but they’re still far better than good.


End file.
